


A Serious Affection

by DesdemonaKaylose, neveralarch



Series: Banners from the Turrets [15]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Amica Endurae, M/M, Open Relationships, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: Prowl has decided to court Starscream for amica, based on Starscream's political leverage, central status within the Decepticon community, and powerful hugging arms. Jazz isn't especially happy about it.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Jazz/Prowl, Jazz/Rung (Transformers), Megatron/Rung/Starscream (Transformers), Prowl & Starscream (Transformers)
Series: Banners from the Turrets [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1265390
Comments: 69
Kudos: 187





	A Serious Affection

**Author's Note:**

> This whole fic probably only makes sense in the context of the series, but it's especially closely related to [To Be Securely Held](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748198). Hope you're excited for this series to grow some new weird pairings...
> 
> This fic contains suggestive scenes and references to sex, but no sex actually on screen.

> “Friendship is a serious affection; the most sublime of all affections, because it is founded on principle, and cemented by time. The very reverse may be said of love. […] The vain fears and fond jealousies, the winds which fan the flames of love, when judiciously or artfully tempered, are both incompatible with the tender confidence and sincere respect of friendship.”

— Mary Wollstonecraft

“Bumblebee is a sure yes vote.” Prowl tapped the corresponding Bumblebee glyph on the chart, then followed a string to another glyph. “And while Cliffjumper reflexively says no to any new proposals, Bumblebee has a sixty percent chance of convincing him simply by acting as an example…”

“Mhm,” said Jazz, and let himself zone out a little while Prowl talked. Prowl wasn’t looking for input, he just needed to talk it out and he didn’t like talking to himself. Jazz had wasted a lot of time racking his processor for feedback on complicated strategic problems, back in the early days of working together. Now, a couple decades into peace and this whole relationship thing, Jazz understood how to sit back and chill out.

Not that Prowl had _said_ anything. Prowl deliberately avoided stating his own intentions wherever possible, always more the type to suggest that an idea originated elsewhere, possibly in the subconscious of whoever he was talking to. Jazz figured it was lingering swarf from being a constructed enforcer before the war, always trying to get forged administrators to listen to him without getting shot down for stepping out of his place. Prowl hadn’t told him that either. You just had to be observant, with Prowl.

Right now, Jazz was observing a new string on the Major Cybertronians Relationship Chart Board. It was silver. It was shiny. And it was connecting the neat glyph for Prowl to the equally neat, recently reshuffled, glyph for Starscream.

“Metalhawk will support any proposal if it has the potential to glorify himself in front of his constituency,” said Prowl, “but the other neutrals hold complex and shifting motivations which…”

The MCRCB had been a fixture in Prowl’s office for most of the war, tracking the interpersonal tangle of the Autobot army. Now that Prowl had a desk job in the shared policy department office, it lived in Prowl and Jazz’s apartment, taking up most of a wall in the living room. It’d been expanded to reflect major players of both factions, and anyone else who was connected to them (i.e. just about everyone who was on Cybertron and several mechs who weren’t). There were red strings for conjunxes, white strings for non-elective kinship, and an assortment of other primary colors for other types of relationships. 

Jazz was especially fond of the dark pink string that connected him and Prowl. It had started out pretty light, but Prowl kept replacing it, year after year, shading it closer and closer to red.

The point was, the MCRCB was thorough. It was meticulous. It was a work of art.

Strings didn’t just _appear._

“Hey, Prowler?” said Jazz. “What’s up with that silver string?”

Prowl paused, expressionless, for long enough that Jazz could almost feel the heat starting to billow off his tactical processor. “It’s...” Prowl said, slowly, “the possibility of a relationship. A desire in potentia.”

“A _crush,”_ Jazz said, automatically.

“Hmm. A crush.”

“Now just hold on there,” Jazz said, with a desperate smile. “You can’t seriously be telling me you have a _crush_ on _Starscream?"_

Prowl looked at him.

It wasn’t that Prowl didn’t understand relationships. It was that, possibly, he understood them _too_ well. Interpersonal relationships were a series of probabilities and changing tactical landscapes in which Prowl easily lost himself, forgetting from time to time that the pieces on the board were, in fact, actual mechs. He had a tendency to be indelicate.

Like the time Prowl had come to Jazz’s office with drinks to celebrate having officially made it to ‘the statistical mark in our relationship where there is a better than fifty percent probability of remaining romantically involved for a further vorn of intimacy.’ Jazz had found it sweet. Optimus had found it borderline horrifying.

Or the first time Optimus had stumbled across the relationship stringboard (at that time housed in the back of Prowl’s office at Autobot HQ, still their home base while they picked their way through endless post-war negotiations). No one, not even Prime, could help but look for themselves on the chart when presented with it. You could tell it was his first time, because of the shattered noise he had made upon picking up the blue string with his own name on one end and realizing who the other end was attached to.

 _"Megatron?”_ Optimus had wheezed. 

Without looking over his shoulder, Prowl had said, “Lines aren’t necessarily romantic relationships.”

And Optimus had said, helplessly, “That’s not an _answer."_

Jazz’s mouth twitched as he remembered the subsequent argument. (“You don’t have my relationship to Ironhide on the chart.”) (“Yes, I keep it up to date”) (“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”) 

Just one more example of how Optimus didn’t quite get the joy of a blunt instrument. Optimus wanted diplomacy; Prowl wanted solutions. Jazz liked the straightforwardness of it, after a lifetime of subterfuge and triple-crosses. He liked _Prowl._ It was this Starscream thing he didn’t like.

Prowl’s doorwings flicked and bobbed as he moved on, tapping various pins as he discussed the mechs in question. He’d been at it for the better part of an hour, plotting out the different favors he’d have to trade and the blackmail he’d have to get in order to pass the new infrastructure funding bill. Jazz watched him from his usual chair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, his cup of coolant congealing in his lap. His ankle twitched, and he had to cut off a rogue subroutine that wanted to start jiggling his knee. He felt restless.

Lately, Jazz had started getting coolant every day, just for something to do. He took a different way to get to the shop every time. Just to stay sharp, you know? One of these days he might need to shake a tail again. Peacetime was no reason to get sloppy. When he’d exhausted all possible legal vehicular avenues in fairly short order, _including_ residential roads, he’d started off-roading, and then stretching his rusty parkour skills. Today he had made it from the office to the coolant shop to the apartment in .5 kliks under his best time, all while swinging from balcony to window sill across the Autobot quarter. His engine had barely broken 60 rpms. 

“Have some coolant,” he said, reaching over and nudging the cup he’d left on the side table towards Prowl. “Why Starscream?”

Prowl picked up the cup and looked at it like he didn’t really know what to do with coolant.

“You put it in your mouth,” said Jazz. “Come on, babe. Why Starscream?”

Prowl took a tentative sip. “Lately I’ve become interested in pursuing an amica.”

Jazz had to stop three different combat protocols from onlining. Frag, it wasn’t like they were exclusive—Jazz had his hall pass, and so did Prowl, even if he never used it. They weren’t conjunxed yet either, even if Prowl had already picked out the venue and Jazz had three quarters of the playlist nailed down. And even if they _were_ conjunxed and they _were_ exclusive, it would still be out of line for Jazz to get worked up about Prowl courting someone for amica.

It was because it was Starscream, that was all.

Jazz could see the logic of pursuing _some_ kind of relationship with Starscream. Prowl was connected to most of the Autobot community through friendships, favors, and alliances. Starscream was deeply embedded in the Decepticons, both because he was their star senator and because he was sucking spike for half of high command. But _amica?_ Amicas were supposed to be your closest ally, to take your side without question or doubt. To be trusted more than you trusted yourself.

Jazz thought it sounded like a nice fantasy at the best of times. But Starscream would make it a nightmare.

“Do you really want to cuddle with a back-stabbing sharkticon?” asked Jazz. “Is this some new masochist thing? Because if you want to get hurt a little more, I could—”

“I think Starscream would be good at cuddling,” said Prowl, except for him ‘I think’ was roughly equivalent to ‘I’ve run several thousand simulations.’

“No, hon, you’ve got cuddling mixed up with strangling again, it’s an easy mistake.” Jazz forced a chuckle. “This is a prank, right? Wild, you totally got me, but—”

“With his superior arm length and powerful tensors,” said Prowl, inexorably, “he could not only envelop me fully but also administer moderate pressure—”

“Baby, I’m begging you,” Jazz said, “please run this analysis one more time with all your logic centers engaged.”

Prowl blew out all of his vents in a frustrated little huff. “I have run hundreds of analyses, each more conclusive than the last. Starscream is the perfect candidate for true friendship. His central position within the lingering Decepticon power structure, his deep-seated desire for approval and belonging, and his lack of close non-romantic relationships makes him both valuable and vulnerable.” 

“Prowl,” Jazz said, with a pained smile. “Prowler. Prowlidad. Friends ain’t a campaign to be won. You gotta find someone you’re _compatible_ with. What about, uh,” he looked at the MCRCB for inspiration, “what about Red Alert?”

“Red Alert and I would attempt murder within a week if forced into close proximity,” said Prowl. “Neither of us has patience for the other.”

“Oh, ‘cause Screamer’s full of patience,” said Jazz. “I’ve seen you fight at meetings.”

“Hmm,” said Prowl, and then he went right back to his infrastructure bill like nothing had happened.

This time when Jazz’s knee pinged him to start jiggling, he went ahead and let it.

\---

For thousands of years, Jazz had been a spy, a saboteur, and a spook for the Autobot army. He had worn faces and played games that would make a footsoldier’s head spin, and he was _good_ at it. The clear and shining line from A to C—the weak point in a fortress or an ego, the right word at the right time—Jazz knew how to prize it out and cover his tracks, coaxing and redirecting all the way. 

In peacetime, the best outlets he had for those skills was a) coolant runs and b) hiding in an air vent, spying on a meeting of the senate’s infrastructure and urban development committee. Jazz would call it pathetic, except that between Prowl, Starscream, and Bumblebee, it was one of the more challenging group of marks he’d ever tried to spy on.

Fortunately, all three of them were distracted by Starscream’s latest attempt to steal Prowl’s lightpen.

“I just need to _borrow_ it,” said Starscream, hand clasped tight around one end of the pen. “You have extras in your subspace, I know you do.”

“You have already taken seven of my lightpens, _and_ three datapads,” said Prowl, his own hand clamped on the other end. “I am not sacrificing anything else to your lack of preparedness.”

“Please,” said Bumblebee, who had the great misfortune to be sitting in the middle of all this. “Please. I will give you both a dozen pens, just stop—”

“Order, please,” said Metalhawk. “As chairman of this committee, I _will_ have order. Starscream—”

“Senator Starscream, please, chairman.”

 _"Senator_ Starscream, stop trying to steal the poor mech’s pen!”

Both Starscream and Prowl turned to glare at Metalhawk. The pen snapped.

“Prowl,” said Metalhawk, ignoring the lightpen carnage, “what is the report from the policy department?”

“If you are asking me a question in my official capacity, I must ask that you use my title,” said Prowl. 

“Surely we needn’t stand on ceremony—”

“There are minutes being taken.” Starscream jabbed a talon at the little neutral stenographer, who looked very unhappy at being included in the conversation. “This is on record.”

Metalhawk sighed, long and loud, conveying without any words on the record that this was all a tremendous waste of his time. “Senior Policy Advisor Prowl,” he said with clipped precision, “what is the report from the policy department?”

“Thank you, Chairman.” Prowl set down his fragment of the lightpen. “The policy department has reviewed the infrastructure bill proposals put forward by the members of the committee. In regards to the first proposal, put forward by Chairman Metalhawk—”

“Bumblebee, give me a pen,” muttered Starscream.

“What’s the magic word?” hissed Bumblebee.

Starscream flickered his optics coquettishly. “Oh, Senator Bumblebee, great and merciful savior, if you could bear to part with a lightpen, your humble servant would lavish his gratefulness on your most perfect codpiece—”

“Frag off!” Bumblebee shoved a pen at Starscream’s chest, his biolights flushing. “I meant _please."_

“Are you attending to the Senior Policy Advisor?” asked Metalhawk. “He is giving us his assessment of _my_ plan.”

“I’m rapt with attention, Chairman,” said Starscream.

Prowl nodded approvingly. “As I was saying. The policy department has assessed Chairman Metalhawk’s proposal and found it impractical, unaffordable, and completely inoperable.”

Metalhawk froze. “What?”

Starscream laboriously made a note in his datapad. “The… Chairman’s… plan… sucks. Yes. Fascinating, Advisor Prowl! What did you think of _my_ plan?”

“Your plan, Senator Starscream, was significantly more practical in its focus on improving transportation and access to public health services.” Prowl nodded again, and Starscream preened.

“Yes, well, it is _experience_ that matters. After all, our illustrious Chairman has—”

“However,” said Prowl, “it is also completely inadequate and, one might even say, negligent in its treatment of the workforce.”

Starscream slammed his datapad down with a worrying crack. _"Negligent?"_

Prowl produced a new set of datapads and passed them around the table. “The policy department, in coordination with Senator Bumblebee, is proposing a new infrastructure bill, one which is budget-neutral while also addressing all of the critical priorities identified by the senate’s five-century plan. If you would each turn on your datapads—”

Starscream raised an elegant and dangerously-sharp hand. “I’m sorry, there doesn’t seem to be one for me.”

“I apologize for the oversight,” said Prowl. “Perhaps you could share with Senator Bumblebee?”

Jazz could actually hear Starscream’s vocalizer clicking off as he contained the doubtless piercing shriek of rage. Primus, this was gold. Who cared if Prowl had a crush on Starscream, it clearly wasn’t going anywhere. They couldn’t be in a room for five minutes without yanking each other’s hinges. Starscream might be up for some good old-fashioned hate sex, but Prowl didn’t swing that way—which would just lead to another juicy fight if Starscream actually tried to come on to him. Jazz could sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

Except, at the end of the meeting, Prowl proved once again that he understood relationships better than even Jazz gave him credit for. Everyone was filtering out of the little conference room, helms full of numbers and tanks growling on empty, and when Starscream made to shove past Prowl, Prowl put his hand on Starscream’s arm and said:

“I was wondering if you would fuel with me sometime?”

Starscream was standing right under the vent, so Jazz couldn’t see his expression. But he could see the way Starscream’s wings jerked up and his plating flared, making him look about half again his normal size. 

“I am interested in getting to know you better,” said Prowl.

“Rung put you up to this,” said Starscream.

Prowl spread his hands, a carefully practiced gesture of innocence. “No. I am approaching you of my own volition.”

“Then it’s a very transparent plot.” Starscream sneered. “Are there going to be paparazzi at your chosen assignation? I’d expect more thought from a master strategist. An affair will just be embarrassing to _you_ and your pet commando. Everyone already thinks I pop my panels on Megatron’s command.”

“I’m not interested in your panels,” said Prowl. “I’d like to be friends.”

All of Starscream’s plating slicked down, and his voice went very small. “Friends?”

“Friends,” said Prowl, firmly. “Perhaps tomorrow? After work?”

“I,” said Starscream, “I, uh, I mean, I don’t—I don’t see why _not._ Sure. I guess.”

“What the _frag,"_ said Bumblebee, out in the hall, the only rational mech left in government.

Jazz crept away from the vent, trying to figure out his next move. Prowl had looked pleased, so his processor was clearly still off in la la land. Starscream had looked shocked, and he was a pretty bad actor, so Jazz figured he hadn’t seen this coming. There had to be some mastermind behind this, someone whispering in Prowl’s audial. This whole setup felt like something Jazz would do, if he wanted to destroy postwar stability and, potentially, Cybertronian society.

Who did he know who was clever enough to do that?

\---

When Starscream had come home last night, bubbling with both anxiety and excitement, Rung had known something special was happening. He’d cooed and hummed and nodded as Starscream laid out all the reasons why he believed that Prowl was secretly out to get him and didn’t actually want to be his friend at all.

“Who does that, anyway?” Starscream demanded. “Ask someone on a _friend date?_ It’s a trap.”

“Maybe,” Rung said, thoughtfully, “he’s planning to court you for amica?”

Starscream froze for a full minute before bursting out with another heap of babble. Megatron groaned and levered himself out of berth, taking a datapad with him to sleep on the couch. Rung couldn’t _blame_ him, exactly—by this point, it was so late at night that it was practically morning—but Starscream deserved a little patience. Certainly he deserved a friend.

Rung told him so, stroking Starscream’s wings as they finally settled down to recharge.

“Of course you’d say that,” spat Starscream. “You’re always pestering me to _make friends_ and _talk to people_ about _my life._ What’s the _point?_ I’ve got you, and Megatron, and Aglet. I don’t need anyone else.”

“It’s healthy to have a confidant who you’re not sexually involved with and who you’re not paying,” said Rung. “It creates space in your life to process more of your feelings and create a diverse network of emotional support.”

 _"Ugh,"_ said Starscream. “You don’t have any confidants. You just keep collecting new casual interface partners.”

“Three people isn’t a _collection,"_ said Rung. “And I have plenty of confidants. Like,” he racked his processor. “Like Ratchet.”

“Oh, _Ratchet."_ Starscream squirmed so Rung’s hands fell from his wings to the more sensitive vents in his back. “You’d be fragging Ratchet too, if Deadlock didn’t have his spike on a chain.”

Rung refused to be distracted by petty taunts, but then Starscream _kept_ squirming until he was on top of Rung, murmuring about how he wouldn’t mind modding his own array with a set of bright golden chains, delicate but strong, fastened by a tiny padlock so Rung could wear the key on a loop around his neck. 

Megatron came back from the couch, then. Rung lost a little of his resolve.

“Just promise me you’ll at least try to be friends,” Rung said, when they were done, Megatron passed out against Rung’s back and Starscream slipping into recharge with his helm pressed to Rung’s chest. “Not allies or co-conspirators or rival despots. True friendship is so much more than who you can assassinate or who will lead the coup.”

“Mm,” Starscream mumbled, more pliable when he was satiated and half-asleep. “Okay. Promise.”

Rung loved Starscream, and he knew him very well. This was why in the morning, he asked Starscream for permission to chaperone.

It felt a little selfish, even then. It was a rare joy, watching friendship blossom into life. Rung sipped his energon tea and beamed as, at a table just far enough away to be private while still close enough to be audible, Starscream's suspicion slowly melted away, and Prowl unbent inch by inch until they were both leaning forward, optics only for each other.

"I can't _believe_ you hate the agenda pre-planning meetings too," said Starscream. "You always look so... engaged."

"They're a waste of time," said Prowl. "I only attend them because otherwise Metalhawk complains that his feedback is being ignored."

"That cretin." Starscream sneered. "If I still had access to an orbital missile platform, I'd know exactly how to handle him."

"I've created fifty-three inoperable plans for making Metalhawk disappear," said Prowl.

 _"Oh."_ Starscream reached out, not _taking_ Prowl's hand, but laying his fingers very close to where Prowl was holding the base of his cube. "I'd _love_ to hear more."

Rung almost couldn't bear the wave of delight filling his spark. Whatever doubts Megatron had about Prowl’s intentions—and there had been many, mostly sent in snide comms while Rung was trying to work—Rung could see that his spark was true. This was clearly the prelude to a formal amica courtship. Just to think, by this time next week they could be _cuddling._ Rung reached out for the teapot, his optics fixed on the happy flicking of Starscream's wings, and his fingers closed on empty air.

He refocused on the table, and found the former head of Autobot special operations sitting across from him.

"Hi," said Jazz, pouring himself a cup from Rung's teapot. "What kind of silt-sucking slag is Starscream trying to pull?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rung. "Is there enough for another cup?"

Jazz poured for Rung as well. "Does he think he can control Prowl through playing amica? Or is this all building up to blackmail? An ambush? You gonna get Megatron involved?"

"I'm sorry," said Rung. "I'm really quite lost. _Prowl_ asked _Starscream_ out."

Jazz's visor flashed, and he smiled. "Come on, mech. I know how ideas can just... appear. You're the one with a reputation for mnemosurgery."

“Please.” Rung couldn’t help giving Jazz an exasperated look. “We both know that was never anything more than a silly rumor.”

“Uhuh.” Jazz took a gulp of tea. “I just can’t figure out what you’re trying to get out of it. You seem to be doing pretty well in peacetime. Head of Tetrahex General, Megatron safely under control, powerful senator sleeping in your berth… Seems like you’ve got everything you want. Unless you wanna pull Prowl into your little web?”

“I don’t have a _web,"_ said Rung.

“The MCRCB says otherwise,” growled Jazz. “You’re the most connected mech on Cybertron, and I’ll be fragged if I let you pull the strings on Prowl.”

“What are you _talking_ ab—" Rung cut himself off as he registered the increasing excitement from the other table.

"We could absolutely make that happen," said Starscream. "Ironhide drinks at Macaddam's at least twice a week, and he gets talkative, if we had the code for the armory..."

"We don't want to do anything violent," said Prowl. "Just embarrassing and scandalous. Minimize the number of questions asked about where the stories come from. When the Senate resigns en masse, you and I will be ideally placed to—"

"Excuse me for a moment," said Rung, and got up from the table. "Darling?"

"Mm?" Starscream was scratching something into the soft metal of his saucer, the talons of his other hand twitching as if he was debating bridging that last little gap and reaching for Prowl's arm. "Rung, we're a little busy—"

"No assassinations or power grabs," said Rung. "You did promise."

"No one would _die,"_ said Starscream. He'd drawn a picture of Metalhawk being led away in cuffs by a strikingly handsome Praxian enforcer.

"Nevertheless," said Rung.

Prowl nodded. "We can work within those parameters. Is Jazz bothering you?"

"I'm sure we're about to have a lovely conversation," said Rung, and returned to his seat.

"Spoilsport," muttered Starscream, perfectly audible. "Anyway, who else do you hate? I want to make a list of mutual enemies."

"What is _happening_ here?" said Jazz, holding his helm in his hands.

"Something wonderful," said Rung. His spark swelled again as he watched Starscream scoot his chair around the table so he could confer with Prowl over a datapad. Wing and doorwing bumped against each other until Starscream unexpectedly gave ground and allowed Prowl's door to slide over his wing.

"I should have known something bad was going to happen when he took Starscream's invite to your reception," said Jazz. "And then he wanted me to be _nice._ Prowl never wants me to be nice."

Rung considered Jazz. He was aware that Jazz didn’t like him, and he wasn’t actually sure why. He was so much more used to being _ignored_ rather than disliked. The idea of him being some kind of all-powerful mastermind was clearly absurd, surely Jazz could see that. He _did_ know why Jazz disliked Starscream, but—

"Do you feel threatened?" asked Rung. "Do you worry that if Prowl has an amica, he might have less use for a conjunx?"

Jazz straightened up and smiled, free and easy. "Why would I worry about a thing like that? They're different roles, everyone knows that. Anyway, Prowl and I are still courting. We're not committed."

"Mm." Rung stirred his tea with a fingertip. "Would you like some advice?"

The smile didn't change. "No."

"All right." Rung sucked his finger clean. "A statement, then. If you ruin this just for the sake of ruining it, I'll—"

"What?" Jazz's teeth showed in a grin. "Sic Megatron on me?"

"I'll be very annoyed," corrected Rung. "And Starscream would be livid, though I'm sure you're clever enough to make him think it was his idea to break things off. So he'll be miserable instead. But Prowl will be upset, no matter what you do. I would hope that would restrain you."

Jazz didn't answer. Rung looked back at the other table. Starscream was almost but not quite leaning on Prowl, their shoulders a bare inch apart. Prowl was telling Starscream something about Ironhide, some difficult little interpersonal conflict, and Starscream was making comforting noises. Starscream _comforting._ Rung sent Megatron a packet of his sensory impressions just because he didn't think he could handle this alone.

"We'll see how it plays out," said Jazz, abruptly. "Maybe Screamer will ruin it on his own."

"I think you'll be surprised," said Rung. "More tea?" He flagged down a waiter.

“If this isn’t your scheme, why aren’t you worried?” asked Jazz, once tea had been requisitioned. “Big bad Autobot tactician comes chasing after your, uh—”

“My Starscream,” offered Rung.

“Sure, your Starscream.” Jazz shook his helm. “For all you know, Prowl might be trying to turn him. Seems like you ought to be fighting for your territory.”

“Please, the war is over,” said Rung. “I’m surrounded by Autobots at work already, I’m not concerned about sharing one of my lovers.”

Jazz didn’t do anything as obvious as gape, but there was an _openness_ to his expression that became even more obvious a moment later when he shut it down.

“You seem very tense,” said Rung. “Have you relaxed at all since the war ended? Or have you just been bracing for the next blow?”

Jazz regarded him for a moment. Then he visibly turned on the charm, lounging back in his chair and trailing a hand down his bumper to his waist. “Why, doctor, are you offering to help me… _relax?"_

Rung hadn’t been, actually, but—Well. He had his preferences. Jazz, almost trembling with repressed energy and optics narrowed behind that beautiful blue visor, fit most of them.

“I’d very much like to,” Rung decided. “If you’re interested, and if Prowl doesn’t mind.”

“If _Prowl_ doesn’t mind?” Jazz’s mouth twisted briefly from smirk to scowl. “You’re not even gonna _check_ with your more murdery half?”

“Megatron trusts my judgment,” said Rung, primly. Perhaps that was going a bit far, though he wouldn’t say so to Jazz. Megatron _indulged_ him, that was closer to the truth. He’d been feeling especially indulgent ever since Rung brought Pharma home with him and tested just how many mechs they could fit in their berth.

But Megatron would probably not like having _Jazz,_ of the late Autobot high command, in his berth. That _was_ a territory issue. Rung furiously paged through his options, trying to select a middle ground where nobody’s plating would be ruffled. Jazz would probably appreciate somewhere other than Rung’s home anyway, given that it housed fifty percent of _Decepticon_ high command. 

“Why don’t we continue this discussion somewhere else?” Rung asked. 

“Mech,” Jazz said, denta flashing, “if you think I’m dumb enough to go home with you—”

“My office is just a few blocks away,” Rung cut in, smoothly. “The weather is lovely, we could make a walk of it. You could tell me a little about what you’ve been doing lately.”

Jazz leaned a little further over the table and Rung’s spark _thrilled,_ oh, there was just something about being looked at like this, like Rung was _dangerous._ He very badly wanted to prove that he could be, if only in this one respect.

“—Catapult!” Starscream half-shouted at the other table, and Rung broke away to look at him. “If we get a strong enough spring, we could get him all the way to the moon!”

“And then with Metalhawk out of the way,” agreed Prowl, “we could—”

“Excuse me,” said Rung, and stood up. “Starscream, please, you did promise.”

When Rung looked back he was half-expecting Jazz to be gone. But no, he was still there, still looking at Rung. He reached over and picked up Rung’s own cup and took a deliberate sip.

“Darling,” said Rung, abruptly, “will you _try_ to keep yourself under control if I leave?”

Starscream’s wings jerked up. “Why? Where are you going?”

“He’s going to go have sex with Jazz,” said Prowl.

“Oh,” Starscream said, waving a hand, “if _that’s_ all. Now, if we can’t catapult Metalhawk, maybe we could just...”

\---

Deadlock had done all of his filing, he’d cleared his message inbox, and he’d planned out Rung’s schedule for the next six weeks. Now he was just sitting with his heels kicked up on his desk, using his claws to sharpen a piece of scrap metal into a contraband knife.

It’d been ten minutes. He sent Ratchet another comm.

 **Ratchet:** no i’m not done yet and every ping you send me adds another five minutes to my shift

 **Deadlock:** Your shift was over two hours ago, Ratch

 **Ratchet:** i didn’t ASK you to wait for me

Deadlock scowled at nothing in particular. Yeah, Ratchet hadn’t asked Deadlock to wait for him. Ratchet never asked for anything. It was up to Deadlock to ambush him and make him go out for dinner and maybe have a drink or two and then maybe, if he was _real_ lucky, smuggle himself into Ratchet’s apartment where he could lick at Ratchet’s panel until Ratchet finally relented and snapped it back so Deadlock could get at that sweet dripping valve hidden inside. _Frag,_ Deadlock wanted to get three fingers in there, spread it wide so he could—

The door to the office opened, and Deadlock jerked upright, his almost-knife clutched in one hand.

“Only me!” called Rung. “Deadlock, you’re here late.”

“Yeah, uh,” Deadlock put the knife down and dragged a couple datapads over it. “Yeah, I’m just, just, catching up on work. I’m heading out in a sec.”

“You’re far too diligent.” Rung breezed past Deadlock’s desk to unlock his inner office. “Ratchet must be rubbing off on you.”

Ratchet _rubbing_ _off_ on _Deadlock._ “Hnng,” said Deadlock, cleverly.

“Jazz, stop lurking in the hall,” said Rung, over his shoulder. “Either come in or go away, it’s your decision.”

 _Jazz?_ Deadlock mouthed at Rung, and when Rung nodded, Deadlock turned to find Jazz standing right there, at his desk, holding the knife which Deadlock had definitely just hidden and definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

“Nice weight.” Jazz ran his thumb over the edge. “Not that sharp, huh? Feels a bit soft.”

“It’s not done yet,” said Deadlock. He wanted to take it back, but he wasn’t going to try and _grab_ a _knife_ from the head of Autobot special operations, so he just held his hand out and tried to look like he didn’t really care that much what Jazz did.

“Jazz,” said Rung, “I didn’t ask you here so you could bother Deadlock.”

“Hmm.” Jazz dropped the knife on the desk. “No, I guess you didn’t.”

A moment later, Rung and Jazz were in the inner office and the door was sealed. Deadlock let his vents crack open a little, let in some cool air.

Then he realized that Jazz had just disappeared into _Rung’s office,_ with _Rung,_ who definitely wasn’t going to be able to defend himself against any assassination attempts. All his vents clamped shut again.

He didn’t waste time convincing himself that it would be ethical to eavesdrop. It was just necessary. He picked up the knife, and crept over to the door.

“So this is you,” Jazz’s voice hummed through the door. “I was expecting more… straps.”

“Were you looking forward to those?” Rung sounded amused.

“And needles,” Jazz carried on, ignoring him, “maybe some suspicious pink stains around the furniture…”

“Honestly, Jazz, I don’t think you understand very much about medical administration.”

The problem with eavesdropping was that everyone knew Jazz was a stealth operative. If he rounded on Rung and put a blade to his throat cables, there wouldn’t be even a whir of servos to give him away. On the other hand, bursting in on an ‘innocent’ meeting would just result in one of Rung’s patented looks of ‘I’m not _disappointed_ but I am going to ask some searching questions about whether you’re keeping up with your therapy appointments.’

Deadlock just hoped that when the moment came, Jazz would be enough of a showboater to shove Rung up against a wall or something first.

Jazz’s voice was a dangerous purr. “If you think you’re gonna get my guard down like this, my mech, you got another thing coming.”

Rung made an odd breathy sound. “I’m sure your guard is impeccable, even at times like these.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t know what you’re really after, but you ain’t gonna get it from me.”

“Mmm. It certainly seems like I’m going to get _something..."_

There was a soft clang, and Deadlock had immediate visions of finding scrape marks in the shape of a hand on a mech’s thigh armor. Should he break in now? Who’d touched who?

“I oughta crack you open,” Jazz’s voice dropped to a murmur, “see what secrets you’re hiding in that pretty spark of yours.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to try.” Rung still sounded amused. “Why don’t you start _here?”_

There was the distinct sound of someone’s frame hitting the desk. Deadlock reared back, ready to put his shoulder through the door, when he heard the moan.

The very satisfied, not at all in pain, Rung-like moan.

Deadlock froze.

There was another moan.

Deadlock slowly backed away.

What should he do here? Just—just _leave?_ Rung probably thought he’d already left, he wasn’t the kind of inconsiderate mech who’d frag in his office if Deadlock was still around. But it still stuck in Deadlock’s throat to leave Rung alone with Jazz, even if the situation was less, ghh, less _violent_ than Deadlock had thought.

 **Ratchet:** okay kid i’m done

 **Ratchet:** ready to get out of here?

 **Deadlock:** Um.

 **Ratchet:** what’s that supposed to mean

 **Deadlock:** Um. Hypothetically speaking, if someone was, uh, fragging in, in their office, would you—

 **Ratchet:** i’ve got a perfectly good berth at home kid i’m not fragging you in my office

 **Ratchet:** it’s unsanitary

 **Deadlock:** No, I didn’t mean—wait, how unsanitary

 **Deadlock:** Should I go and stop them? Are they gonna catch something?

 **Ratchet:** stop WHO what the frag is going on

 **Deadlock:** Nothing, nevermind

 **Ratchet:** oh no you’re not dropping that on me and just changing the subject

 **Deadlock:** It’s fine, are you in the surgery ward? I’ll come get you, we can go to dinner

 **Ratchet:** this is disgusting

 **Ratchet:** i’m going to write a fragging MEMO about this

Deadlock tucked the knife into his subspace and slunk away from the door. About five steps away he couldn’t hear the moaning any more. With his audials, anyway. He felt like they were psychically imprinted on his aura.

He was going to have to get Ratchet’s help to cleanse that. At least it would distract Ratchet from this memo thing.

\---

They’d gone from the cafe to Prowl’s apartment. Starscream wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. He had a vague intuition that he should be playing hard to get, that he should be holding out for a formal amica courtship with _gifts_ and _pleading_ and Prowl agreeing to support Starscream’s policy agenda with all of his considerable resources and devotion for the rest of their lives.

But Prowl just kept touching him, light, careful, warm touches on Starscream’s arm, and shoulder, and once, as they were leaving the cafe, at the small of Starscream’s back. He kept saying how much he enjoyed talking to Starscream, and how he’d hate to have to stop just because the cafe was closing for the night. And now Starscream was sitting on Prowl’s couch, thinking about how badly he wanted to be in Prowl’s lap.

It was a nice lap. Prowl had broad, solid thighs. Starscream thought he could sit and doze there for hours.

It was ridiculous. He was in enemy territory. He’d already found a laser pistol shoved down between the couch cushions, and Prowl had simply clucked his tongue and put it in a bin marked JAZZ which he kept under the low table next to their feet. There was a massive string conspiracy board on one wall, with about a thousand points and a million pieces of string.

Prowl had given Starscream some coolant, and Starscream hadn’t even thought to check to see if it was poisoned until it was too late. And he wanted to be in Prowl’s _lap._

“Tell me more about your campaign plans for the next election cycle,” said Prowl. “I love listening to you talk about yourself.”

Starscream’s whole frame flushed with heat. _"Well._ I hardly have to campaign at all, the competition is _so_ outclassed. Supposedly Scrapper was considering a run, but I convinced him that he was better placed as a leader in the construction industry, what with all those government contracts coming in. And then there’s this ridiculous jet called Dreadwing, he’s a _nobody,_ I can guarantee his run isn’t going anywhere because I have pictures of him snorting boosters and a reporter who owes me a favor at the _Bulletin._ Really, if you’re going to use drugs you should check for surveillance first.”

“You’re very clever,” said Prowl, admiringly.

Starscream flushed again. Frag, his biolights were probably _blazing,_ this was so embarrassing. Had he just stepped off the manufacturing line, that a few compliments overwhelmed his processor like this?

“You look a little uncomfortable,” said Prowl. “I apologize that my furniture wasn’t designed for your height and wing structure.”

“It’s fine.” The couch was actually better than most, as long as Starscream slumped a little so his wings hit the top of the cushions like Prowl’s doors did.

“You don’t need to make do with inadequate furnishing.” Prowl patted one of those thick thighs. “Why don’t you sit with me?”

Starscream stared. If someone he was thinking about fragging had said that, he would’ve laughed at them. But when Prowl said it…

He was vulnerable. He could feel it. He hadn’t spent this much time talking to someone without plotting to kill them or opening his panels in—hm. This might be the first time. And Prowl kept _looking_ at him, like it was a pleasure just to be in Starscream’s _presence._

“Come sit in my lap and let me play with those gorgeous wings,” said Prowl, softly.

“Ugh!” Starscream half-flung himself into Prowl’s lap, squirming until he was straddling Prowl’s hips, his shoulder shoved against Prowl’s face. He set his talons into Prowl’s side vents, just in case Prowl got any clever ideas. Sitting like this made their size difference obvious, and Starscream felt that familiar uneasy mix of pride and discomfort at how much he loomed over Prowl.

“Why ugh?” asked Prowl, as he ran his hands delicately over the flat planes of Starscream’s wings.

“I can’t _believe_ how easily you’re manipulating me,” complained Starscream. “I’m a slut for friendship. You just wiggle your fingers at me and I’m throwing myself at you for cuddles.”

“It’s not easy to manipulate you,” said Prowl. “I dedicated twenty percent of my processing power over the course of six weeks to identifying the best candidate for amica, and then forty percent for a further three weeks developing the best strategy for securing your affection. For comparison, typically thirty percent of my processor is dedicated to ensuring the successful future of Cybertron.”

Starscream arched a little as Prowl gently moved one of his flaps. “I’m more important than Cybertron?”

“I consider securing you as amica to be the top of my priority tree for this quarter,” said Prowl. “Yes.”

 _"Oh."_ Starscream shuddered. “That’s—You know I like that.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re still manipulating me.” Starscream could feel his struts melting, his cockpit pressing against Prowl’s chest. “It’s only the first date, are you angling to perform rites _already?"_

“I would be happier with some form of commitment, however small.” Prowl’s vents sighed, a warm rush of air over Starscream’s fingers. “I worry that once you go back home, you’ll come to your senses and realize you don’t want to be friends with a glorified calculator.”

Starscream bristled. “Who said that? I’ll kill them.”

“I’m not referring to anyone in particular—”

“I’ll kill everyone who’s ever made you feel inadequate,” Starscream promised.

Prowl’s hands tightened on Starscream’s ailerons. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. That will do for a commitment.”

Starscream lost some time, just sitting in Prowl’s lap and feeling Prowl’s hands move over his wings. After a while he started trailing the tips of his talons through Prowl’s vents. He could feel Prowl’s spark pulse, thrumming through both of their frames. To be wanted so badly that someone planned a _campaign_ to have you. To be more important than _Cybertron._

The door to the apartment opened, and Starscream stiffened as his helm snapped up and his alert systems came back online. He hadn’t even noticed they’d disabled themselves.

“Babe?” Jazz staggered into the room, leaning heavily against the wall. “Did you wanna get dinner tonight? Only I’m a little tired, and—Oh. You still got company.”

Jazz looked like slag, like he was too exhausted to keep up the cheerful front he usually fooled the world with. Starscream was delighted to discover that Jazz’s natural facial expression was a slightly down-turned mouth and shrewd optics. His visor also looked somehow… squashed. There were faint orange paint transfers on both sides of his helm.

“Did Rung take your clever mouth for a ride?” cooed Starscream. “I see you get the appeal _now."_

“Only you would hold a grudge over a snarky comment I made a couple decades ago, Screamer.” Jazz limped over to sit on the arm of the couch. “You got out of prison, you got your smug little therapist back, and I got peace. I figure we’re even.”

“And I get to snuggle with your intended,” said Starscream, “while you get your one afternoon of fun with Rung. _I’m_ here to stay, you know. You’ll just have to deal with that, even without Rung to distract you.”

Prowl pinched Starscream’s wing, but Starscream shook him off. He was busy glaring at Jazz.

Jazz met his stare with a flat look for a moment, and then the easy-going mask dropped back onto his face. He smiled, and his optics even lit up cheerfully. “I’m feeling too relaxed to be jealous, Screamer. Group hug?”

“No,” hissed Starscream.

“Then move over.” Jazz slid off the arm of the couch, pressing himself against Prowl’s side as Starscream scrambled out of the way. After much silent jostling and glaring, they settled with Starscream plastered over Prowl’s left side and Jazz curled into Prowl’s right, one of Prowl’s arms wrapped around each of their shoulders.

Starscream supposed that was acceptable. He had a lot of practice with sharing, after all.

“Y’all wanna hear about Rung fragging my processor out in his office?” Jazz yawned. “It was nice.”

“Ooh, yes,” said Starscream. “He _never_ lets me frag him in the hospital.”

“I’m interested in how it felt,” said Prowl. “But not all the… fluids.”

“Minimum fluids, gotcha,” said Jazz. “Okay, so first off, Deadlock looked like he wanted to shank me the second I stepped into that place—”

Starscream felt himself relaxing again, secure in Prowl’s arm. Rung could talk as much as he wanted about confidants, Starscream knew it was pointless sentimentality. You had to rely on yourself to survive. But this was… nice.

It felt like a luxury. And Starscream _deserved_ luxury.

“You should come over for dinner sometime,” he mumbled into the top of Prowl’s helm.

“Certainly,” Prowl said, without apparently stopping to consider it at all. “We would love to.”

“What?” Jazz stopped in the middle of detailing how Rung had gently and inexorably shoved him onto the desk. 

Starscream sniffed. “Yes, alright, Jazz can come too.”

“You gotta be pulling my leg,” Jazz said. “Dinner with you, Rung, and the guy whose conjunx I just ate out?”

“Yeah,” said Starscream. He could show Prowl off to Rung and Megatron, he could show Rung and Megatron off to Prowl, and maybe, just maybe, Jazz would get thrown out of a window. “It’ll be fun.”

“Thank you, Starscream,” said Prowl. “That sounds very agreeable.”

“Really? All right, fine. Fine. Might as well.” Jazz sighed. “I was enjoying my quiet life, Prowler.”

“Hmm. No, you weren’t.”

“Yeah, okay, no.” Jazz sighed again. “You’re too smart about people, babe.”

“Finish your story.” Starscream offlined his optics. “Prowl, go back to petting my wings.”

Prowl chuckled, but his hand started stroking over the edge of Starscream’s wing.

“Yes, your majesty,” said Jazz. “Now, as I was saying before someone so _rudely_ interrupted, there I was, lying on the desk with my panels open, and then Rung just climbs on up there. I start getting this tingling curl in my fuel tank, looking up at those big bright optics of his, and then his panel _snapped_ back, and—”

Starscream’s comm pinged.

 **Megatron:** Are you coming home tonight? I wanted to finish the crystal bonsai.

 **Starscream:** I’m out with my _new best friend,_ don’t wait up for me

 **Starscream:** I might sleep here tonight, Prowl is _very_ comfortable

 **Megatron:** Fine.

 **Starscream:** What, are you jealous? You’re such a hypocrite, _you’ve_ had an amica for _centuries_ but the second I even think of getting one you go all monosyllabic 

**Megatron:** Can I go into your room to get the bonsai?

 **Starscream:** NO

 **Megatron:** Fine.

 **Starscream:** If I find out you’ve been in there, I’ll kill you in your sleep

 **Megatron:** I said, fine. We can work on it tomorrow. There’s no need to start threatening somnohomicide.

“Hey, Screamer, are you listening?” asked Jazz. “Don’t fall asleep, I’m getting to the best part.”

“I’m listening,” said Starscream. He burrowed a little closer into Prowl’s warmth. “Prowl?”

“Hm?”

“Do you _want_ to have an amica? Or am I just strategically convenient?”

There was a brief, deep silence. Starscream got the feeling that he wasn’t the only one on the couch with his vents clamped. He didn’t online his optics—he didn’t want to see Prowl’s expression.

“I think it’s both,” said Prowl, at last. “Though I have to admit that sometimes I find it difficult to parse the difference between ‘want’ and ‘believe that it will significantly increase my quality of life.’ Is that acceptable?”

Starscream turned that over in his processor, looking at it from all angles. _He_ was going to improve the quality of Prowl’s life, just from being in it.

“I think,” said Prowl, seriously, “that you have very good hugging arms.”

Starscream wrapped one of them around Prowl’s waist, nudging his hand past Jazz’s hip, and squeezed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m glad you noticed.”

“Can I finish my story?” asked Jazz. “Or are you two busy with the lovefest?”

“Go on,” said Prowl. “Starscream won’t need further reassurance for approximately twenty-five minutes.”

Starscream flicked Jazz in the hip, but he didn’t contradict Prowl. It was easy to let himself fall into the wash of Jazz’s voice, with Prowl’s engine still thrumming through his frame.

 **Megatron:** For what it’s worth, I am happy for you. A true friendship is rare, and more valuable than any metal, any jewel. You should revel in it.

 **Megatron:** But please don’t revel for too long. Rung’s already threatening to ‘help’ with the bonsai if you’re too busy.

\---

MEMORANDUM

TO: All Tetrahex General Hospital Staff

FROM: Medical Department Chief Ratchet of Vaporex

SUBJECT: If I catch anyone having sex in this hospital I will dismantle your equipment myself

To all staff members—read the subject line. Now read it again, but imagine me shouting it at you. Do not test me on this. I will not use pain patches.

Have a great weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> Nev: Rung looks at a Jazz having a meltdown and is like "is anyone gonna eat that"
> 
> You can share this fic on [DW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose), [Tumblr](https://neveralarch.tumblr.com/post/613333084179415040/a-serious-affection-desdemonakaylose), or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/neveralarch/status/1241871544017661955)! Thanks for reading :)


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